


The Sun In My Eyes

by WordWarriors



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, FYI, Grantaire is blind, M/M, Reincarnation, bc this is all unbetad, but other than that hes pretty chill about it, e/R is the main pairing though, i mean we are talking about grantaire here, i write shitty smut, like really shitty smut, oh and there is swearing, so there's a teeny bit of an angsty scene about that, yeah its explicit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-09 09:35:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WordWarriors/pseuds/WordWarriors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His eyes were a color that William, the poet in his literature class, might call midnight or ocean, a color that Benjamin, his argumentative roommate, might call misery or oppression, and Zach, the cynical self-loather himself, might scoff at and call beat up old jeans, or "just fucking blue". And of course, the med school kid down the hall would have called them what they really were: cataracts. But they were so much more. They were the cloudy sky, and the murky waters. They were the imperfect opal and the mottled bruise. They were blue that had once been clear, and now lay oppressed, swathed in white.</p><p>They were eyes<br/>And they were blind.</p><p>(aka a reincarnation AU where the barricade boys have to find each other while one of them can't see)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Day He Went Blind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time writing and publishing, ever, so be gentle with me, please. (obligatory sex pun, sorry not sorry) Name translations and explanations at the end

His eyes were a color that William, the poet in his literature class, might call midnight or ocean, a color that his roommate Benjamin, his argumentative roommate, might call misery or oppression, and Zach, the cynical self-loather himself, might scoff at and call beat up old jeans, or "just fucking blue". And of course, the med school kid down the hall would have called them what they really were: cataracts. But they were so much more. They were the cloudy sky, and the murky waters. They were the imperfect opal and the mottled bruise. They were blue that had once been clear, and now lay oppressed swathed in white.

They were eyes  
And they were blind.

To understand why Zach was where he was, you have to understand how he became blind. Zach was born with a brand of cataracts called Congenital Cataracts, as in, cataracts that you are born with. If you were lucky enough to be born in say, a hospital, or anywhere near a medical center, as soon as it became apparent that these cataracts were impairing his vision, they would have been removed. But Zach was a gutter baby, born in the back of a van, and (according to many) would die in the back of a van. His mother, when she was alive, saved all the money she could get her hands on, whether her hands were in other people's pockets, or cupped, begging for change, because she knew, she prayed, she hoped that her son could see the sun. That was how she died, her fingers frozen to the metal tin, decorated in sharpie scribbles by her (then seven year old) blind son. (you couldnt have known if you hadn't been Zach's mother, but the scribbles were a blind boy's attempts at drawing a sun, at drawing the star that lit up the sky with it's love for the earth, not unlike a mother's love for a son who would never know what she looked like)

But this is not a prologue of how Zach was born blind. This is a prologue of how Zach became blind.

After that winter, there was a lot of water. That's all he could remember. Just water in cups, water on windows, water on cheeks. He still isnt sure what happened to his mother's body, but all he knows is the day they took her somewhere...permanent, the water started pouring down, drowning out the sun he had tried to draw on the stupid metal campbell's can. That was the beginning of the day the light inside him started dying. Soon after, Zach was slapped back and forth in some sick game of dribble-the-kid, back from houses who thought fostering a blind child would bring them a greater tax cut, and then tossing him back at the agency when no such cut was afforded. Every few weeks, he would show up on a new doorstep, staring at the floor, the porch, the walkway, the front yard, the fire escape, hugging the same can that could have held all of his mother's worldly possessions, the same can that was clamped in place in his scared little fingers. After the can had gotten thrown out for a fourth time, was when his light could have only lit up a smile, when before it could have shone throughout the sky. After he burned his fingers on the fire his foster parent (who would later be jailed for child abuse) lit in the living room in an attempt for insurance money, was when his light faded into a small broken flame, just enough to light the way for the bugs that lived in his mattress. After being stranded outside his highschool enough times that he could walk up and down the hallways like someone who could actually see where they were going, was when his light stuttered. When he felt the neck of his foster parent's vodka stash, was when his light was smothered, the liquid drowning out his hope and his love. That was the day that Zach's dreams went as blind as his eyes.

Zach went on, with the help of some other lost souls, to a college with a campus that would help him get around. This involved a program that was new to the college, a program called "walk with me" (zach referred to it as the "seeing eye people"). It involved having a person (with eyes that worked) live with you, be your roommate. They would be your guide, your go to man, your most-reached contact. They got nothing in return. It was a volunteer program, still taking its baby steps, but it was new and public enough for Zach to be a candidate for the blind half of the duo. His roommate was some political major named Benjamin, and they would be living in a normal apartment, a clear walk form the campus. And hell, normal was good enough for Zach, who could pin his hopes on a metal soup can. He packed his bag and got the hell out of dodge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I am relying heavily on the fact that grantaire is poor and that his cataracts are really bad because in all reality  
> 1\. he could probably still see shapes and stuff, like looking through heavy fog  
> 2\. he could have probably gotten like a well fare or charity operation on his eyes because the actual operation is pretty routine  
> i just needed a medically valid reason for why he was blind, not just "oh we was born that way kthxbai". Congenital cataracts are a real thing, but they're usually removed right after birth
> 
> Just to clear up:  
> Zach = Grantaire (named after Zachriel, angel of memory [get it])  
> Benjamin = Enjolras (named after Benjamin Franklin)  
> William = Jehan (named after William Ernest Henley, the guy who wrote my fav poem, invictus)


	2. The Day The Sun Rose

     Zach shuffled in place, not trusting the woman who had told him there were chairs right next to him. She probably just wanted to see him fall. What was he, but some dumb blind jerk who decided to (voluntarily) live with someone that he was supposed to count on. Which was so not going to happen. He had trusted too many people trying to be parents, why start now with forced friends? They were probably in it for some college credit thing. Maybe they were doing community service and were actually a criminal that would steal all his shit. That's more likely. While Zach was fuming in the center of the room, the secretary tried to get on with her work, and failing miserably. Poor woman. Zach probably should have mentioned that he got mean when he was nervous.  
\--  
     The first thing you need to know about Benjamin is that he did a lot of things that sounded important without thinking about them first. There's a rally organized to help the rights of farmers in Bali? Sign him up. The school needs someone to sign up for a dying club to keep enough members for funding? He's your man. New program involving helping blind students? He's there. Never mind that the rally was actually in Bali, or it was the politics club (that actually just hung out in a bar during meetings, they didn't actually do anything) or that the blind support involved LIVING with the blind person. So yeah, Benjamin did a lot of things on impulse. But he made sure to always follow through on what he promised he would do. He couldn't actually go to Bali, but he made sure to bring the cause to the attention of those who could. He brought the club back on track, making the meetings about what was going on in the world today (this involved some bargaining on Benjamin's part- they stayed in the bar, but the members would actually have to listen) and, well, having a roommate never hurt anybody, right?  
     Later, Benjamin would write a feedback form about the program that someone should have warned him of the man he was about to meet. Oh sure, he was nice at first. Well, civil would probably be a better word.  
     Later, Zach would ask Benjamin to write his feedback form asking the agency to at least make the volunteers read a book or watch a video on how to approach blind people, because Benjamin "had no fucking clue" (this was part of the reason he asked Benjamin to fill in the form for him.)  
     Striding in like he owned the place, Benjamin suddenly realized what he was getting into. He knew what he was doing, of course. But then, like some shoddy third grade camera work, the big picture zoomed into place. He was living with someone. Signing up to have a level of friendship and intimacy with someone that he never had before. What the actual shit was he doing?  
     The secretary looked up from her typing and then found two boys, standing completely still in her waiting room. She was too old for this.  
     "Excuse me, but is your name Benjamin?" The kind secretary asked, snapping the blonde one from his reverie, and simply grabbing the attention of the angry one in the corner.  
     "Um, yeah. Yeah that's me. Benjamin. Yep." He still hadn't moved, but at least he could form a sentence.  
     "Yes, you'll need to fill this out, it's just a legal document verifying your identity."  
     "Yeah sure, just let me get a pen."  
     They chatted on about nonsense, a back and forth of uninteresting opinions in a conversation that neither of them were actually listening to.  
     Zach hung onto every word, his head following the steady stream of words, waiting to be noticed, rather than bring the attention to himself.  
     "Alright, so his name's Zach?"  
     "Yes dear, he's right over there."  
     Spinning around fast enough to make a small breeze, his gaze span the room, and he really would have missing the guy in the corner if he wasnt staring _right at him_. (He really wasn't. Zach hadn't actually opened his eyes in years. But that didn't mean Benjamin couldn't feel his gaze.)  
     "Um. Hey. I'm Benjamin. Nice to meet you." He walked up and held out his hand to shake, and left it hanging there for a moment before he remembered he was talking to a _blind guy_  and then put it back down, thanking everything he had ever known that Zach hadn't actually seen that. Benjamin wasn't one to swear, but it was just fucking eerie when a someone blind is staring you in the eyes, with their eyes closed.  
     "You too. It's Zach, as you know. And if your hoping im going to do that touchy feely thing with your face, you can forget about it right now."  
     "Um. What?"  
     "Nothing. Let's go to the apartment. You like the layout of the place?"  
     "Uh. Yeah. I guess."  
     Zach _smirked_ and then just held out his hand and with a grin, said "Good, because it's never going to change. Ever."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I won't be posting once a day anymore, but i will be trying to post once a week. up next, we'll see the apartment and Benjamin/Enjolras will still be awkward around Zach/Grantaire


	3. After The Sun Set

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should mention at this point that I am writing without a beta, so any spelling errors that occur are entirely my fault! point them out and I shall correct them
> 
> this chapter is a bit longer than usual (which i'm sure you all are happy about)

The car ride was silent, not due to lack of words, but an abundance of music. As it turns out, a blind guy can operate an iphone, albeit very vocally and with a heavy reliance on siri. Music crashed through Benjamin's Volvo, making what would have been an awkward silence into a slightly more awkward silence, but with mood music. After three songs had faded, Zach finally cracked his neck and paused his music. "Alright, here we go. Yes, I was born blind. No, I'm not deaf. I dont remember my dreams, so I have no fucking clue if I can see in them or not, I don't know why there's braille on the drive through ATMs, and no, I'm not an inspiration in any sense of the word. Anything else?"

"Do you sleep?" Benjamin never took his eyes off the road, seemingly unfased by the round of answers.

Well, that was a new question. "Yeah I sleep. Why do you? Shit - you're not some demonic vampire are you? Because let me tell you, the second you go all Twilight on me, I am running away."

In hindsight, Benjamin realizes he could have probably phrased that better.

"No, I mean at normal times. I usually work through the night, and some people find it distracting."

"What, you worried the lights will keep me up?"

"No, no, it's just-" goddammit, he can talk to the masses and police without flinching, why is this so difficult? "I'm usually the main speaker at gatherings and rallies. So I practice my speeches. At night" "Nah man, it's alright. It's always night for me anyway, so you go and be outspoken."

The rest of the ride held almost nothing. No music, no questions, not even silence, really. Just an almost. Lots of almost conversations, almost songs, even an almost friendship. When he pulled up to the apartment complex, Zach opened the door and waited for Benjamin to come around for him, and let himself be led up the stairs, fingertips grasping the sleeve of his shirt. When they passed the two flights of stairs and halted outside the door, Benjamin went to pull the keys out of his pocket, when he was stopped by an arm on his elbow.

"Are those keys?"

"Yeah, there are three for the door, and we can make more if we need, plus there's a different one for the back entrance to the buildin-" The warm palm slipped from his tricep and then went face up, fingertips towards the ceiling. "Alright, hand me the one to the door?" Half thankful he hadn't fumbled with the keys, he dropped the small piece of copper into Zach's hand, and just watched. Zach ran his thumb over the shape of the key, memorizing the pentagonal head and the mismatching teeth, treating every millimeter like the important thing it was; pressing the sharp groves into the heel of his palm. Fingers reaching out, he felt the grain of the wooden door, slowly tracing downwards, taking his time to figure out where the deadbolt was. When he gently bumped his hand against the lock, he dragged the tip of the key towards the opening, which he felt for with his fingers. Unlocking the door, he turned back around, grabbed Benjamin's arm again, smiled and added "After you" The whole thing took about two minutes, and happened in complete silence. and it took Benjamin' s breath away. Slowly walking in, his gaze still focused on the heel of Zach's palm where the grooves of the key lay imprinted in his skin, he almost missed Zach muttering under his breath.\

"...three, four, five-"

"Are you counting?"

A turn of the face, then a smirk, accompanied by a small "Yep." And then more quiet. See, Zach knows that Benjamin is going to ask. He just wants to drag it out of him. But Benjamin had grown up in a household where he learned to swallow the answer fed to him; and while he has since grown out of his passivity, he reverts back to old habits when he was scared, nervous, or among strangers. (In this case, all three situations applied.) So he just just shrugswith an "Alright" and shakes off Zach's arm in order to put his luggage down in his room. When he returns, Zach hasn't moved. at all. Hasn't shuffled, hasn't fiddled with his hands, barely breathing. When he hears Benjamin walk back towards him, he puts on a nervous smile, and tries to pretend he wasn't a little bit scared. "So, Blind Guy Rule number one, if I dont know where I am, don't walk away from me." "Shit- sorry oh my god I am so sorry, here let me-" Benjamin ran over and grabbed Zach's arm. Zach flinched a little, but held onto his smile. "Blind Guy Rule number two, you are really lucky I knew you were coming, because if not, you probably would have scared the piss out of me." Slowly, Zach turned into Benjamin's grasp, took a few deep breaths and said "Alright then, on to the bedroom." And Benjamin, mentally beating himself up and down the curb, led him to the room, noticing again the repetitive chanting of numbers coming from his roommate. 

"So, I have to ask. The counting?" He was still beating himself up inside, he was just really curious, and hey, if it meant not making another dumb mistake then he was all for dumb questions

"Oh. Yeah. The counting. I have to remember stuff like that."

"Why?"

"How many steps were there on the stairs leading to our floor?"

"Is that important?"

"Are you avoiding the question?"

"No."

"Yes you are. There are twenty two. It's important for me. Twenty two steps up the stairs, seven steps to the door, and about twenty four steps to...is this my room?"

"Yeah, mine's just down the hall. We can go there next. And you memorize all those numbers?" Benjamin could only stare in awe at the blind wonder that was his new roommate. This man who he knew nothing about had already blown him away in what little he had seen. Zach at this point had started trailing his fingers across the walls, no doubt ingraining the paint's texture into his memory, filing the bumps away later for when he was lost.

"Yep. I have a lot of practice with numbers, it's why I'm so good at math. When you picked up my bags, there was a shoebox there, yeah?" As he spoke, he stumbled into the desk that lay tucked into the corner of the room. Smiling and rubbing his leg where he had been hit, he called out "Blind Guy Rule number three: warn me when shit's in my way, dude." The words were a tease, not a reprimand. Benjamin wasn't even half sorry, he was just hypnotized by the sheer dedication Zach took to memorizing all the details of the empty room. What would it be like when Zach unpacked? As he struggled to picture the room in front of him full of furniture, it dawned on him how little Benjamin actually knew about his new roommate.

"So..." Be cool be cool be cool "Where did you grow up?"

Zach didn't bump into the bed against the wall, but there was a scary moment where the past nearly repeated itself. "Oh all over. Foster homes come in all shapes and sizes. Or so I'm told. I usually stayed in my room for the first few weeks, which was how long it took to weed out the money grabbers."

Benjamin wasn't sure how Zach knew he was confused, but he answered the unspoken question anyway.

"A lot of times, people sign up for foster care for the tax payoff. After a few weeks, if they sent me back, then they were in it for the money, and if they kept me, then they waited for a bigger cut." Benjamin wrinkled his nose, startled at the sudden cynicism that had fallen form Zach's mouth.

"Well, they couldn't have all been that way." 

Zach grinned as he grasped the edge of the mattress and pulled it off the bedframe. "Oh Ben, you'd be suprised. Foster care does tend to bring out the worst in people. This-" he rucked his shirt up, baring the right half of his rib cage "-is from the sixth house. The woman there got mad at me for knocking over a vase, so she splashed me with the water she was boiling for dinner. Never quite went away." The exposed skin looked almost fake, like a when paper gets wet and then dries, all wrinkles and folds, places where skin is stretched too tight, places where the skin doubles over. The scar itself doesn't fade out. Instead it just dissapears, leaving and awkward line around the edge of the puckered skin, like oil in water. Ben is frozen. Nothing could have prepared him for something like this. The sight of a man, facing the opposite wall and talking to him, scar free and exposed, showing him a part of himself that seemed so intimate. (Had you asked Zach why he had shown Benjamin his scar, he would have changed the subject. Had you asked Zach about how he felt about his new roommate with the _amazing_  voice, he would have scoffed and taken a deep drink of wine. And had you looked into his soul, you would have seen his light begin to stutter back to life.

The next morning, neither talked about the nightmares they experiences that night. For Zach, they were nightmares of a different flavor, and of course he remembered none of it upon waking, except for the ghost feeling of gunshots and a warm hand in his. For Benjamin, they were the first nightmares of his life, nightmares that involved blood and anger and violence and towering piles of furniture and a man that drank too much and believed too little.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see see this is about les mis I told you I promise
> 
> next chapter we'll see how some other boys from the barricade are living in modern day America. bonus points if you can guess who
> 
> (and also yes i am making them from america because i feel like i will offend as few people as possible if i write them like that because i am american and speak no french so this is just easier for me to write accuratly)
> 
> (also i'm on tumblr ( word-warriors.tumblr.com ), and as soon as i can think of a creative writing tag, i will totally post my work on there as well)


	4. The Clouds Parted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has gotten so much attention, and I want to thank you for reading it. You are awesome, and I love you for giving my story your attention.  
> (the song the cellist is playing is Bach Suite no.1, but I really like the piano guys' version here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ry4BzonlVlw )

     Tack - a - tack - a - tack - a ding! tack - a - tack - a - tack - a ding!

     The noise in the back of the lecture hall clattered through the room, making every student aware of its presence. Of which there were two. Zach, because Benjamin had called him and told him that he was going to be late in picking him up from class, and William because he didn't want Zach to wait alone. This was the British Literature class that they shared, and the two had become fast friends after William had slid in next to Zach and told him, in no uncertain terms, that as the only blind man on campus, it was his duty to show William how he saw the world, so he could write a poem about it. Zach responded with a promise to do nothing of the sort, lacing the statement with enough oaths to make the next row of students reasonably uncomfortable.

     So Zach wasn't what William was expecting, but that didn't mean William was about to run away in fear. Far from it, he wouldn't leave Zach alone. Ever. But from what Zach could tell, William was nice, if not naïve sometimes, and straight up delusional at others. He always wore these huge sweaters with sleeves that spilled over into Zach's part of the bench, but to be fair, Zach would always push his papers into William's direction. That day, Zach was trying to type up his notes into braille while determinedly ignoring William's poem recitation

"Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul."

     William sighed at the words, and Zach could almost _hear_ the dreamy smile on his face.

     "I'll conquer your mom." he muttered, scowling as he ran his thumb over the paper and read the typo he had just made.

     "Son of a _bitch_ , now I have to write this whole fucking thing all over again." He slammed back into his chair and tore his fingers through his curls, taking his obvious stress out on the roots. William sighed again and gently rested his hands on Zach's shoulders, softy rubbing out the knots in the muscle that formed after a lifetime of staring down and away.

     "Come on. Lets go outside and get some coffee. I hear there's this street performer who plays the cello around this time, and he's only a few blocks away."

     William's hands started pulling up on Zach's shoulders in an effort to get him to move. Zach rolled his chin off of its resting place on his sternum let himself be pulled, after packing up his writer and papers.

 

     The walk to the coffee shop was long, but the sound of the cello player weaved through the crowds, accompanying them as they went. Even inside the shop, as they sat talking about everything, William swore he could almost hear the pulsing of the deep notes, if he strained to listen. After Benjamin pulled up in front of the store, apologizing furiously for his tardiness, without sparing William a second glance, Zach's face lit up, and he waved goodbye to his friend the poetry major and hopped in the car. Smiling into his own cup, he marveled at how, of the two of them, Benjamin was no doubt the blind one.

     Before the door could swing shut again, the soft sound of a cello slipped into the café, the beginning notes of a Bach caressing the air before being smothered by the following notes. Looking at the (outdated) clock on the wall, William realized that the cellist had been playing for almost an hour nonstop, at least, and decided to buy him some coffee. It was the least he could do to repay the hours of music. As he walked across the courtyard, two coffees in hand, he looked at the cello player. Even from a courtyard away, with his head bent low so his face was near parallel to the ground, you could still see his blinding smile as he played, his fingers sliding up and down the neck of the cello, his bow gliding back and forth. his smile only glowed brighter as William drew closer.

     When he could make out the curls on the cellist's head, several things happened, all at once.

     First, a group of college freshman set off a roman candle, causing several loud CRACKS to explode in-

     blood red bursts over the courtyard, and the cello player, Giacomo, jolted, his body contracting in pain, causing a loud SCREECH to emanate over the crowd, his head snapping up as if he had been shot by rifles, only to see-

     William, without thinking, for the first time in his life, collapsing in on himself, into some defensive ball of fear, shaking to his very bones with terror and a bone chilling certainty that _this was how he was going to die_ , a knowlege that he had already died, that he would never see his friends again, _that he was alone_.

     Before he could put down (drop) his cello, Giacomo lowered his hand down to the concrete so that when his instrument did slip from his fingers, there was minimal damage. He ran (stumbled) over to the small man, the one with two cups of coffee that had spilled over the ground, seeping away in between cracks in the courtyard and when he closed his eyes, Giacomo saw the liquid turn red, so red, so he didn't blink, didn't pass out, didn't flinch, not when he called out "God dammit, this is a public area!" not when he felt all these aches in small places on his person, small wounds that he felt should be bleeding, should hurt more, should have klled him, _did_ kill him, not when he rested his hands on the boy's shoulder, not when he could feel how he shivered, through his sweater and his shirt.

     "Are you okay? Are you alright? Here, what's your name? Those guys are douche bags, ignore them, did you get any coffee on you? I'll buy you more, I just got, like, thirty dollars in the last hour, here, let me help you up."

     Something to know about Giacomo, the cellist, is that he had this inherent need to fill silence. Whether that was with words or music or kissing, it was an ever present instinct of his to fill his ears with sound. And it often unnerved people. So much so, that even as he was talking, he was worried that he would stress out the already shaken man in front of him. But the words seemed to calm them down, give him something the two of them to focus on, William on the words, Giacomo on anything but the sense that something very, very wrong had just happened, and the sense that something very, very right was about to pass.

     As the boy with long hair and shaky fingers straightened up, his mouth caught up with his brain and he started answering al the words that had been thrown at him

     "Actually the coffee was for you, I - um - I heard you playing and was going to give you some- I mean, you've been playing for a long time, and I want you to know that you are appreciated and I love your music and was going to tell you so when- um. yeah. My name's William and um I'm sorry I really dont know what came over me I'm not this nervous really, that's more my friend Alexander, I mean he's this medical student and-"

    It was unusual for a poet, a man who is so talented at making his words perform in their simplest and most minimal forms, to babble on as he had. But as he finally looked into the cellist's eyes, he interrupted himself with one simple word. 

     "No."

     "No?"

     "My name isn't William."

     "Jehan?"

     " _Courfeyrac_."

And there, in the courtyard, with a cello laying on the ground and coffee staining the concrete, the two men held  each other, not in an embrace, but in bone crushing vices, a personal reassurance that  _yes, yes, you're here_ and  _I'm sorry_ and over and over from each other's lips, as their fingers felt arms and cheekbones and tears and _pulses_ , were three words, whispered with sadness and melancholy and a burning validity:

 _"I missed you."_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY! The thing happened! Yay!  
> okay so  
> 1\. the braille typewriter thing that Zach uses is a real thing, and it's really complicated. each key has a number, and each letter is a different combination of numbers. It's like pressing all the letters in "ant" on a keyboard just to type the letter A  
> 2\. A roman candle is this bundle of fireworks that come out of tube one at a time, and you can hold and aim it, and it does sound a lot like a gunshot (or at least i hope so that's what it was supposed to be)  
> 3\. Courfeyrac = Giacomo  
> 4\. William = Jehan  
> 5\. I can neither confirm nor deny that Giacomo is named after Casanova (He totally was lets not kid ourselves)  
> 6\. the point of this really stressful scene was to show how circumstance helps with memories. Courf and Jehan were close to each other, about to make eye contact, when they heard a noise that was similar to the last noise they heard before they died, but they still didn't remember until after they had made eye contact with each other and had registered the other person  
> 7\. Another Ami was mentioned, did you spot him?  
> 8\. Comments are always appreciated, and if you spot any errors, this is un beta'd, so please point them out!


	5. Eclipsed By The Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all Courf and Jehan in this one. Because they are perf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is a bit late! this is the only time I could get any time in to write

     There aren't a lot of things you can say to someone who live in 1832 France with you. There aren't a lot of things you can say to someone who had lived their previous lives alongside you. And there is absolutely nothing you can say to someone who lived and fought and died along with you, who you had no idea existed at all until right now. There's nothing but this horrible feeling of guilt that sort of drips down until it pools into this wad of self loathing and anxiety. Which is not something that Giacomo is used to feeling. Neither was it a feeling he was used to when he was Courfeyrac. But he is Courfeyrac. And Giacomo. And both. And neither. But the man holding his hand is definitely Jehan. Sure, his hair is longer. And yes, the floral is new. But his eyes and his smile and his voice are all the same and he wouldn't trade this feeling for the world

     There is very little to say to someone who you havent seen in 181 years.

When they finally get back to Jehan's apartment and sort of drag each other onto the couch, they just sit there and look, letting stares fill the silence that could never be broken with words. And it burns for Courf. Giacomo. It burns like a broken bone, a small fracture, the guilt and loathing sits and stagnates and writhes and he just NEEDS to move or else he's going to pass out. Or cry. Or puke. He's not sure. He gets up and makes coffee, trying to find water and a kettle and coffee grounds and ANYTHING to break this silence, which had evolved from this warm and soft comfort into this stifling and jagged blindfold. His fingertips skittered across the counter, feeling out countertops and cabinets and shelves. He was bursting out the seams with energy and he didn't know what to do with it all and he really wants to stay here and talk because he just needs to talk or sing or get in a fight or run a thousand miles he just needs to do something or else he is going to combus-

     The warm hand on his own is the new sun. It is his center, his light, and a point of warmth, anchoring him down, keeping him from spiraling into the cosmos. The chin resting on his shoulder is the moon, a new gravity point, giving him something to orbit, something to follow and chase, something to look to in times of darkness. The arm around his waist is his northern star, a light to follow when he was lost, a beacon of hope that will never leave him. The chest pressed to his back was his own milky way, all stars and brilliance and luminescence and his own beauty, his muse. The brilliance of it all stunned him and terrified him, for he was only the earth in this kitchen universe, a floating rock with mud and dirt and filth and smog and hate and the weight of the world on his shoulders made his head hang low, made the words that had been nesting in the back of his throat slip out, unbidden but needed.

     "I don't know what to do."

     A small exhale, a changing of the tides, and then a whisper across the cosmos:

     "It's alright. I don't either. But today I've been in a British Lit lecture, payed for two coffees, spilled said coffee, experienced something akin to shell shock, and remembered that I took part in a revolution, and also died in. I'm exhausted. I'm assuming you are as well. Let's go to bed."

     A shift in gravity, and then Jehan led him to the back of the apartment, where a truly massive mattress lay, shoved in the corner, with notes and papers and pictures pinned along the wall, some class notes here, a dream catcher there, a few polaroids in between. It was a mess, a proverbial nest of memories. It was the exact thing he needed right now, and if he were the kind of man to weep, he would do so at the sight of the bed, with its wrinkled sheets and solitary pillow, lying alone in the middle of the matress. Even as they shed their clothes, jeans and shirts falling to the floor to revea makeshift pajamas of boxers and socks, he couldn't really tear his gaze away from it. It was more than just a bed. It was its own island, a buffer against bad dreams and darkness. It was exactly what he needed. And Jehan, Jehan, with that smile and those fingers slowly pulled him down until they were parallel with the floor, facing each other and smiling, just resting and reflecting, about the barricade and the musain, about how they know each other and their friends. And yes, their friends are something they need to think about. But not right now. Right now they needed to sleep.

**11:00 PM**

     Courfeyrac could have sworn Jehan was on the other side of the bed when he closed his eyes. But he was a little bit lonely and a lot off kilter, so he wrapped his arms around his anchor and drifted off to sleep

**1:47 AM**

     Jehan was warm. And crushed. And he didn't mind at all.

**4:03 AM**

     There are gunshots and fire and pain and no no NO and Courfeyrac's there. he's there to hold him and keep him safe because it happened then but it didn't happen now it's all right shh shh be still be still.

**6:47 AM**

     Courfeyrac neverwakes up this early. He's a busker by nature, and is only up during rush hour. At the earliest. But now he has Jehan to wake him up. Like he already has, with a smile and a hug and this sparkle in his eye that is way to bright for this time of the day. But he's here, and he's awake, and he doesn't really want to go back to bed when he has this piece of his past laying in his arms.

     "Good morning."

     "Good morning. How long were you up?"

     "Oh just a few minutes. Made some coffee, brushed my teeth, you know, modern habits."

     "Oh god. Teeth. Shit." Slapping a hand over his mouh, Courf dropped his head onto the matress and grimaced. On his good days, his breath was passable. It was why his musical careeer involved hands, not vocal chords. Not to mention his hair. Oh god his fucking hair.

     "Mmmph" gently shoving Jehan off of him, he stumbles into the kitchen, hoping to drown out morning breath and plaque with coffee. Possibly toast. Which is how Jehan finds him, boxer elastic peeking out of the worn fabric, waist resting on the edge of the counter, his hands guarding his mouth with the rim of a mug with the Boeing logo on a navy ceramic.

     "So." Jehan stood in front of Courfeyrac and waited for him to finish his coffe before picking it up and setting on the counter behind him. "I don't think I caught your name."

     And isn't that just the weirdest thing. His smile grows, and he has to stop himself from giggling.

     "Giacomo Sterns. And you? I think you mentioned it, but I really didn't care when I remembered." And it's just the smallest bit of an irish accent that creeps itself into those words, but fuck all if it doesn't make the man in front of Jehan more Courfeyrac than he's ever been.

     "Mmm. You know, strangely enough, I stopped caring too." It's quiet. There's breathing, small puffs of oxygen moving the hair in their faces. And then one slips a small glance down to lips and back up, and the other provides a grin and then their mouths collide and it's all sugar and tea and coffee and warmth and a little bit of bad breath, but that's okay because they can do this over and over again if they want to because they're here. They're here together, and they aren't going anywhere.

     They both seem to come to this conclusion at the same time, and as a consequence the kiss becomes less of a 'welcome home, I missed you' kiss and grows into more of a 'I want to fuck you against every surface of my kitchen' kiss. It uses teeth and toungues, inhales and exhales, hands and fingernails and more and more and more until the kitchen table has more Jehan on it than it ever did before, and they really should be worried about the ramifications of two men laying on top of each other on an IKEA table but fuck it, it has been too long and they're young. They'll buy a new one.

     Which, incindentally, is exactly what runs through Courfeyrac's mind when the table does actually break beneath them.

     First, it's really quiet. Another tense silence, pausing to check that nothing feels broken or bruised while maintaining the millimeter or so of empty space between their noses.

     Then the laughter echoes through the entire apartment, and Courf's head thunks down onto Jehan's shoulder while he shakes with proper giggles, and Jehan just smiles into Courf's hair, his smile is all teeth and earsplitting grin.

     "Alright, c'mere. We'll do this the right way. Not that there's anything bad about table sex per se..." Courf's grin was nothing short of shiver inducing, and Jehan's body could do nothing but comply as he was pulled up "-But I think we ought to wait until you get sturdier furniture."

     "Promises promises" Jehan pulled Courfeyrac back until their noses came in contact. "How good are you at follow through?"

     Thier lips didn't separate until the bedroom door was firmly shut behind them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EHEHEH SMUT CUT OFF  
> (enough to make it to an M rating YAY)  
> (there will be follow through next update)  
> I made Courf the one who was more shaken up by the reunion. I just feel that jehan, being the poetic hipster he knows he is, has been subconsciously preparing himself for this day while Courf's all BOOZE AND PRANKS. yeah.
> 
> \--SO--  
> \- Im probably not going to upload anything for the next two weeks-ish, because I'm studying for finals this week and taking finals next week. If anything, they'll be short little drabbles so if you are studying as well, then you'll only be distracted for a few minutes.  
> \- the chapter was named after the fact that courfeyrac and jehan broke a table  
> \- Good luck to anyone else in exams!  
> \- or if you have any sort of test at all  
> \- or really if you have work/school tomorrow then I hope you have a good day!  
> ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* \\(◕ω◕✿)/ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧  
> Comments and kudos are appreciated and loved!  
> (psst follow me on tumblr: word-warriors.tumblr.com)


	6. Sunbursts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a horrible person and deserve none of your love

     The door to the bathroom burst open, Courfeyrac's back the first part of him to enter. To be fair, he would have entered facing forward, but he was busy wrestling down the absolute _need_ to fuck Jehan into the floor until it shone with sweat and lube. The poet broke away and spoke, sounding for all the world like Courfeyrac's hand wasn't down his pants, damn him. 

     "I can't believe you are actually planning shower sex. You haven't changed at a- ah ah _ah fuck YES do that again_."

     Smirking, having opened Jehan's fly without a hitch, Courfeyrac traced the tip of his thumbnail up Jehan's dick again while dragging his teeth across the other man's neck. 

     "Mmm, see, you talking was definitely not part of the plan." 

     Jehan's lips followed the incline of Courfeyrac's cheekbone until he was able to drag the cellist's ear through his teeth and hiss 

     "I'll show you what I think about your fucking plan." 

     Jehan's fingers slipped under Courf's sweater and actually _lifted him up_ until he was firmly seated on the counter next to the sink. And fuck all if that wasn't the hottest thing that had happened to him in the bedroom. Bathroom. Whatever. It was fucking hot. Jehan's hands roamed over Courfeyrac's ribs, mapping out rib lines and small creases in his stomach from two lifetimes of poor posture and the bumps of a spine and a drumbeat of a heart, singing songs of freedom and liberty and emotion and love. Jehan's hands just absorbed it all, drinking it in, loving how this man, his brother in arms, his lover, was close enough to the man in France to feel comfortable around, and different enough that he always needed to touch, to make sure, to know that he was here and he was his. He needed to see, to be sure. Nails dragged down cotton until they could find purchase on the hem, before promptly tearing it over Courfeyrac's head.

     The sheer amount of freckles and spots on his chest put a chill on he heated frenzy inside him.

     These were new.

     Slowly, gently, the softest touch, a whisper of a connection, and Jehan was tracing the gruesome nebula on Courfeyrac's chest. Softly, trying not to break what was left of this gentle atmosphere, Courfeyrac murmured 

     "When I was a kid, my neighbor told me that birth marks are where you were killed in your last life." 

     And then the freckles- _powder burns_ his mind whispered- fell into place, the clusters becoming gaping wounds, torn flesh, bleeding holes. Jehan was not there when Courfeyrac died, and that made each new birthmark and dark spot hurt Jehan even more.

     Slowly, gently, like opening a book for the first time, wary of breaking the spine, prodding fingers slipped buttons out of place and opened the shirt covering Jehan's torso. And there, to the left of the small v in his collar bone, a smattering of freckles, more of an explosion than a starburst, a small circle for the muzzle of the gun, clusters of specks that could only be powder burns, and a small line, no more than a centimeter long, where the- oh _god_ \- the bayonet must have-

     Arms clench around shoulders and whispers thread through years, promises of "never again" and "I'm so sorry, I should have-" and "it's alright, I'm here." And then they are kissing because they are here, and they always will be here, and they never want to leave.

     The air around them has turned desperate, like it knows that these souls have touched death and will caress it again, and knows that they treat every day with the knowledge that an action or belief can kill them, but they act on their beliefs anyway.

     Lips trace old scars and faded wounds, teeth worshiping the scattered bullet holes, going lower and lower until hands work at the sitting lover's buttons, huffs of breath doing _everything_ for Courfeyrac's arousal.

     Then, finally, hands are around his dick and he has been waiting decades for this and it's everything he had wanted.

     Fingers hold onto hair, gently guiding it down lower to his dick as his head falls backward onto the mirror. (f _uck it,_ hethinks _, we already broke a table_ )

     And oh god whatever he just did with his tongue should be _illegal_

 

     But not for the next few minutes, at least.

     The poet laid open mouthed kisses along the length of Courfeyrac's cock, starting at the root, getting closer and closer to the tip until it would just...

     And then Jehan, the fucking tease, just sort of hovered there, breathing over the slit, just teasing and grinning and oh god if he doesn't start sucking or at the very least swallowing this is going to turn into a very bad porno very fast.

     The high pitched whine that leaks its way out of Courfeyrac's mouth is vaguely reminiscent of a tea kettle. And it's his wordless way of telling Jehan to hurry the fuck up. And he thanks every god he's ever studied or learned about when he does

     And oh, does he ever.

     Lips that normally recite poetry or speculate on the inevitability of death and sadness are stretching over the head of his dick and its certainly not the most important thing that mouth will do in his life but right now the tongue swirling over his cock feels like nirvana, enlightenment, and heaven rolled up into the muscles coaxing out what is going to be the best orgasm of his life and he has to slow this way down if he wants this to go any farther.

     Jehan groaned around the head of Courf's dick when his fingers tightened in his hair, causing the cellist to nearly come from the vibration alone. When Jehan sank his mouth down as far as he could get it, Courf squeaked, making a choked giggle float out around his dick and "Oh god okay yeah that's enough I'm like this close i swear just grab some condoms already." Which should make him embarrassed at how fast this is going, but you know what fuck it he is beyond turned on right n-

     Jehan's lips are traveling so fucking slowly back up his dick that its even worse than when he was going down and the wet little pop that almost echoes through the tiny room nearly pushes him over the edge and as he sits there trying to regulate his breathing all that's going through his mind is oh Jesus he made a mistake why would he ask Jehan to stop that was incredible he just wants to die in his mouth for fucks-

     His internal monologue fizzes into static and white noise at the sight of Jehan climbing into Courfeyrac's lap, gently bringing Courf's head up from the mirror with his right hand and resting their foreheads together as he uses his left hand, shiny with lubricant, to _fuck himself on his fingers holy shit._

     And breaths are traded, a dual conversion from pure drags of oxygen to exited puffs of carbon monoxide, Courf's fingertips burning from excitement and too much lubricant as they trace past bony wrists and knuckles and, holding eye contact, pushes in past Jehan's fingers, making him shudder because there is just something about musicians fingers and how lithe and thin they are and how good they are at playing Jehan like a cello-

     "Oh oh oH FUCK"

     Stupidly proud of himself, Courfeyrac made sure to hit Jehan's prostate again and again until he is a panting mess in his arms.

     Shaky fingers made a vice-like grip on the back of his neck while a wrecked voice spoke, with surprising conviction:

     "If you don't use that condom in the next two seconds and get inside of me, then I will get myself off without you."

     "I don't know, that seems kind of hot."

     "You will be on the other side of that door."

     "Um- right. Yes. Condom." Foil is ripping along with his last shred of restraint and he's shaking so bad, he's wanted this for so long without knowing it and it suddenly hits him like a train, that he could actually screw this up, that this could all go south with the wrong word-

     Steadier hands roll on the condom and his train of thought completely stops. It really should be embarrassing how much of his brain revolved around his dick, it all just feels so /good that he can't bring himself to care.

     His fingertips gouge bruises into delicate hip bones, but he doesn't hear a single complaint, so there they stay as guiding forces and Jehan is sliding himself down on Courf's dick so fucking slowly that it's almost like a compression on his chest, with every inch he is left breathless, and when Jehan is full, resting totally on Courfeyrac's lap, he feels like he can't breathe, like the sight of those hazel eyes and the feeling of their foreheads resting together because their brains are spinning to fast and the earth must have shattered because Jehan is _moving_ and it's better and sweeter and filthier than anything he could have wanted and there is no way he is letting any of this go. 

     He is paralyzed with lust and affection and something warm and forgiving that is probably love, and all he can do is thrust up and follow Jehan's movements, to make to the man in his arms feel all the things that he is feeling, to prove that he loves him and will always love him, and it's his turn to run his hands all over Jehan, to feel the tremors and to hear the breaths, the panting moans of “Oh fuck, oh yes- don't stop no keep going oh fuck fuck _fuck_."

     "Oh god I'm so close I'm going to-" And he can't finish because it's like he's back in middle school, it's embarrassing, he can't control himself and he should be able to but this is perfection and he can't stop.

     "Yeah yeah me too I can't-" Jehan's face is flushed and sweaty, and every shade of beautiful as he uses his legs to keep going up and down, even as his moans get shorter and higher in pitch with each thrust

     "Shh shh shh I got you." He reaches between them, shaking, trembling, trying to make this good for both of them, he grabs Jehan's dick and tries his best, tugging and bringing his orgasm on as quickly as his own, and he can't think or breathe or-

     His world shatters alongside his lovers, and he can't breathe for the beauty, the relief of it. 

     ~:~:~

     They sit there for a while, catching their breath as the tiny bits of debris fall, and their heart rates decline, Giacomo's back curved away from the mirror, with only his neck resting against it, and William's forehead lay against his own. No words were exchanged, only smiles and love as they slowly led each other to the bed and curled around each other, a hand on a heartbeat, a head on a shoulder, and happiness in their bodies. All was quiet when Jehan finally spoke.

     "You were different, I think. In France."

     "So were you."

     "You still recognized me, though."

     "I always will, I promise." 

     And silence fills the apartment, as the boys fall asleep, curled together, tighter than any promise of devotion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry I never meant for this to get so out of hand I apologize so much you dont even have to comment or like it or anything this is an apology sex chapter im SORRY
> 
>  
> 
> (also still unbeta'd I mean i did a once over but if there are any mistakes then this is a shitty apology IM SORRY YOU DONT HAVE TO FORGIVE ME IM A HORRIBLE PERSON)


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